


Snape's Regret

by MaryRoyale



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: All the Hufflepuff Love, F/F, F/M, Hermione will be a Hufflepuff, M/M, Time Travel Fix-It, Yet Another Time Travel Fic (YATTF), non-consensual time travel, the eventual sirimione is really really eventual, we're talking moving at a glacial pace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:28:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29476236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryRoyale/pseuds/MaryRoyale
Summary: Somehow, some way, Severus Snape found a way to send Hermione Granger back in time from beyond the grave. Even more startling is the evidence that Garrick Ollivander helped Snape with his plans. Why? For what purpose? Hermione didn't have the answers to any of those questions. All she could say is that when she got her hands on Severus Snape, *regret* would be amongst the least of his concerns.#EAD2021
Relationships: Garrick Ollivander/Mrs. Ollivander, eventual Sirius Black/Hermione Granger
Comments: 56
Kudos: 218
Collections: Evil Author Musings





	1. A Surprising Bequest

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Evil Author Day 2021. If you don't know what that means-- it's been around for awhile (since 2011 at least) and I learned about it from a group of authors that include Jilly James, Ladyholder, and Keira Marcos. The concept is that these are teasers. There are no guarantees that the story will ever be finished. All that you get is what's here. That's why they're "evil."

It would be so much more elegant and clever if Hermione could say that she had planned everything—that it was all her doing—but alas, she could not. That the person responsible for all of this was Severus Snape was suspect at best and deeply worrying at worst. 

To say that she was surprised to have received a bequest from her former Potions Professor’s estate would have the understatement of the century. She chose not to share the information with Harry because he was still struggling with the memories that Snape had left behind. She chose not to share the information with Ron because… well… because she knew that that was not the sort of conversation to end well, and it seemed as if most of their conversations didn’t end well lately. 

The legal firm that Professor Snape had chosen was respected and most decidedly Muggle. Hermione raised a brow at that, but she went to the reading anyway. She was the only person present for the reading, which didn’t surprise her at all. Most of the people that Severus Snape had known, and would have counted as friends, were dead. Why on earth _she_ had been selected still eluded her. 

There was no connection, real or imagined, between her and Professor Snape. _She_ was not the offspring of his childhood friend. She was not his protégée, or even a member of Slytherin House. Most of her interactions with Professor Snape had been vaguely adversarial or outright hostile. Admittedly, she had set him on fire as a First Year and had stolen from his potions ingredients stores… more than once. If she had been a Professor, she wouldn’t have liked herself either. 

Perhaps it was curiosity that made her go. It was certainly curiosity that made her sign the paperwork affirming her receipt of a small puzzle box. When she returned to the still, silent house that had belonged to her parents, Hermione set the puzzle box on her mother’s kitchen table and sat down. 

For several weeks, the puzzle box just sat there, mocking her. Eventually, Hermione sighed and tried to solve it. For several more weeks, Hermione worked at the puzzle box, trying to solve it. It wasn’t as though she had anything better to do, and in moments of honest self-reflection, she was able to admit that. 

Finally, the box opened for her. Laying on top was a folded piece of parchment. Cautiously, Hermione reached out and picked up the parchment. 

  


_Dear Miss Granger,_

_I imagine that your shock and surprise at receiving anything from me has no doubt rendered your charming companions speechless with inchoate rage. No doubt once they overcome their surprise, they will exhaust you with their ranting and raving. You have my sympathy, Miss Granger. If I had any other options, I would have used them._

_Please do not take this as an insult. Rather, I would not put such a weight on the shoulders of such a young woman, if I could but help it. That I am reduced to this is merely a symptom of the problem._

_Above all else, please know this: I am sorry. The most terrible burden I have ever borne is regret. That you are the one who must suffer for that is my greatest shame, but at the same time I can do nothing else._

_Respectfully,_

_Severus Snape_

  


It was, Hermione decided, a distinctly odd letter to send a student, even if one granted that he had been a member of the Order of the Phoenix and that she had been Order-adjacent whilst staying at Grimmauld Place. Frowning, Hermione peered into the puzzle box. All that lay in the box was a ring. Carefully, Hermione picked it up and examined it. There was a coat of arms carved into the ring, but she didn’t recognize it. 

Confusion consumed her. Severus Snape had apparently gone to rather a lot of trouble… to give her a signet ring? What an utterly ridiculous idea. And yet, here she was, in her mother’s kitchen, holding a signet ring with a letter from Severus Snape laying on the table in front of her. Scoffing, Hermione tucked the letter and the ring back into the box, and shoved the box in a drawer in the kitchen. 

For another week, Hermione ignored the box and its confusing contents. She went about her life, such as it was. She checked in on Harry, who was still struggling to adjust to life after saving the world. Again. 

“Maybe Snape wasn’t so bad, you know?” Harry stated as he stared into his cup of tea. He looked up at Hermione. “Maybe he was one of the good guys?” 

The burning knowledge of the strange bequest burned in Hermione’s throat, but she swallowed it down. Harry was already confused and floundering. She didn’t want to inadvertently upset him. 

“Professor Snape was a complicated wizard,” Hermione settled on at last. “He was a double agent, working for both Voldemort and Dumbledore.” 

“I just… I don’t know what to think anymore,” Harry muttered and rubbed at his face. “Was he in love with my Mum? Was my dad a wanker? I mean… why leave me those memories in the first place?” 

“Perhaps he wanted someone to know why he had chosen to help fight Voldemort?” Hermione suggested cautiously. 

Since the war, Harry had been unusually secretive and possessive about the memories that Professor Snape had left behind. He had confessed that Professor Snape had known his mother before Hogwarts—that they had been friends and had lived within the same neighborhood. 

“That might be it,” Harry murmured.

“I didn’t know your dad, so I can’t really comment on that,” Hermione continued slowly. “But Sirius and Remus were both loyal men who loved your dad fiercely. I can’t see them feeling that way about someone who was a… a _wanker_.” 

“I can’t either,” Harry admitted. “I just… I’m so _confused_ about everything.” 

“I think we’re all confused,” Hermione said gently. “War is never easy. It has touched and changed all of us. We need to accept that some of those changes may never go away.” 

“Thanks Hermione,” Harry said with a sad half-smile. “For coming and checking in on me. For putting up with my… for putting up with me.” 

“You’re my best friend, Harry,” Hermione sighed. “Of course I’m going to come see you.” 

If only her interactions with Ron could have gone that well. 

“Nice to see that you finally showed up,” Ron grumbled at her when she arrived at the Burrow. 

“I’ve been busy,” Hermione said stiffly. 

“Busy?” Ron scoffed, rolling his eyes. “ _Really_? I haven’t seen you for almost two weeks, Hermione.” 

“I wanted to make sure that you had space to… to grieve,” Hermione whispered, averting her eyes. 

The truth was that she had also wanted her own space to grieve; the freedom to throw up a Silencing charm and scream until her throat was raw. Hermione had spent days laying on her parent’s bed, smelling her dad’s aftershave and her mum’s perfume and sobbing into their pillows until her face was red, her eyes had swollen shut, and she couldn’t breathe. 

“Space to grieve?” Ron repeated incredulously. “What does that even mean? Grieving means that you come together as a family, as a community. We needed you, and you weren’t here!” 

“That’s not how I grieve,” Hermione retorted, frustration and anger making her voice rise. “I need time alone, and… and _quiet_ so that I can… so that I can _think_.” 

“I think that… that _F-Fred_ would want you to be here, with the rest of us,” Ron snapped, his face turning ruddy with temper. Confusion flickered on Ron’s face when she sucked in a breath and took a step back from him like he’d struck her. “Hermione?” 

Surely, he hadn’t forgotten? Admittedly, it was difficult for Hermione to remember the days immediately before and after that final battle, but she was certain that she had mentioned that… that her parents were… _surely_ she had said something. 

“My parents, Ron,” Hermione stated tightly. “I wanted some space and some privacy to grieve my parents.” 

“But surely it would be better to be here,” Ron protested. He waved a hand around him. “We help each other to grieve and to move on, that’s what family means, Hermione.” 

The conversation just devolved from there. 

“There are arrangements that I needed to make for them, that I can’t make here,” Hermione snapped. 

“You could use our Floo if you need to, Hermione,” Ron protested. He spread his hands wide. “We love you, we’re your family,” he reminded her. 

The room spun around her. 

“MY FAMILY IS DEAD!” She screamed at the top of her lungs. Ron gaped at her, his mouth opening and closing silently. “My mum is dead. My dad is dead. I needed to call funeral parlours and florists and the local Muggle newspaper. I had to sell their dental practice. Because my parents were Muggles, Ron, and I’m going to do what I can to fulfill their wishes.” 

“Hermione…” Ron reached out for her, but Hermione backed away from him. “That’s not what I… I’m sorry that your Mum and Dad are dead. I’m so sorry, love, it’s just… this isn’t healthy for you. Look at you, you’re a mess.” 

“I’m a mess?” Hermione repeated in a near shriek. “ _I’m a mess_? Fuck you, Ronald Weasley!” 

“Hermione! Hermione, come back!” Ron called after her as she turned and ran. 

Her parents’ home was just as dark and silent as it had been for weeks. She blocked her Floo and stormed through the house, muttering as she went. Hermione ended up in the kitchen, digging through the cupboards for a bottle of wine that she was fairly certain she remembered her mother stowing away for a special occasion. 

Once she found the bottle, she began digging through drawers for a corkscrew. She pulled open one of the drawers and the puzzle box from Severus Snape was sitting there, taunting her with its strangeness. She put the bottle of wine down on the kitchen counter and began to sob. Why was this so hard? Why couldn’t she just go to the Burrow and process her grief communally? Why did she need silence and darkness and solitude? Was there something _wrong_ with her? 

Fumbling, Hermione pulled the puzzle box out of the drawer and set it on the kitchen table. She sat down in front of the box and opened it once again, her fingers pushing and pulling and twisting automatically. Once the box opened, she pulled off the lid and picked up the letter again. She stared at the sloping script of her Potions Professor and frowned. 

What did it all mean? Why put this in a puzzle box? What was Professor Snape talking about? Why was she suffering for his regret? Surely _Harry_ had suffered far more for Professor Snape’s regret than Hermione ever would. She groaned in frustration and tossed the letter on the table. 

_What did all of this mean?_

Curiously, Hermione picked up the signet ring and stared at it. She still didn’t know whose coat of arms was inscribed into the ring. It certainly wasn’t Prince—she’d checked. Why had Professor Snape given this to her? What was Hermione supposed to _do_ with it? Was she supposed to do _anything_ with it? Maybe she was reading too much into this? Perhaps it was just a ring. 

With a shrug, Hermione slipped the signet ring onto the index finger of her left hand. There was a sharp painful pinch, as though the ring had pricked her finger, which sounded silly even as she thought it. Hermione stared in fascination at the coat of arms on the ring. Her finger began to tingle, and the tingling sensation spread quickly through her entire body. Hermione gasped and stood up quickly, knocking back the chair she was sitting in. 

Pain shot through her nerves in an uncanny resemblance to the Cruciatus. Hermione screamed and fell to the floor, arching her back in a feeble attempt to escape the agony. Unconsciousness was a blessed escape, and Hermione grabbed it with both hands.

When Hermione woke, her extremities were still tingling and the aftershocks of whatever had happened was making her limbs twitch spasmodically. She struggled to sit up and realized two important things. The first was that _this_ was not her mother’s kitchen. The second was that she was distinctly smaller than she had been. She held up her left hand and stared at the ring that still fit snugly on her index finger. 

What the _bloody hell_ was going on? Furiously, she tugged at the ring on her finger, but it refused to budge. 

“Miss is late.” 

Hermione spun around on the floor toward the voice and stared at the House Elf who was frowning at her severely. 

“Who are you?” Hermione demanded in a voice that was distinctly higher than it had been. 

_Bloody buggering fuck_. Hermione was going to study necromancy so that she could raise Severus Snape from the dead and give him a piece of her mind. 

“Miss will wait while Acacia goes to fetch the Master,” the House Elf informed her with a stern look. 

The House Elf hurried back and trailing after her was the last person that Hermione had expected to see. 

“Mr. Ollivander!” Hermione gasped in that ridiculously too-high voice. 

“My word,” he murmured and patted his pockets absently. “A time-traveller! In my storage rooms? My word!” 

Carefully, the older wizard crouched down and considered her thoughtfully over the rim of his glasses. He reached his hand out cautiously, with the palm up. Hermione placed her hand in his, and he turned her hand to look at the signet ring on her finger with a frown. 

“I think, perhaps, it might be best if you called me ‘Father,’” he suggested slowly. 

“I beg your pardon?” Hermione squeaked. 

“This signet ring is a family heirloom,” Mr. Ollivander explained. “It has been in the Ollivander family for over one thousand years.” 

Hermione squeaked again and stared at her hand in horror. She tried to pull it off and grunted in exertion, twisting and tugging to no avail. Mr. Ollivander put his hand on her shoulder. 

“It won’t come off,” Mr. Ollivander cautioned her. He frowned at her hand. “It has truly bonded with you, which is… curious.” 

“Curious?” Hermione repeated. She held up her hand between them waving the ring in his face. “I’m wearing a family heirloom—one that you say has _bonded_ to me—and you think it’s _curious_?”

“Indeed,” Mr. Ollivander agreed with a nod. “Somehow, it recognizes you as an Ollivander.” He peered into her face and tilted his head. “Do you remember participating in any adoption ceremonies?” 

“What?” Hermione spluttered. “No! I don’t remember anything like that! The last time I saw you…” Hermione trailed off and bit her lip. 

“Ah.” Mr. Ollivander took off his glasses and cleaned them. “I take it that was not a good meeting?” 

“No, not really,” Hermione admitted. 

“Perhaps if you will permit me?” Mr. Ollivander drew his wand out of his sleeve and held it up. “I can cast a heritage spell, if you will allow it?” 

“I…” Hermione stared up at Mr. Ollivander with wide eyes. Something he’d said earlier teased the corners of her brain. “You called me a time-traveler.” 

“Of course,” Mr. Ollivander agreed. “You’re positively glowing with time-travel magic.” 

“Oh no,” Hermione whispered. 

“It will fade quickly,” Mr. Ollivander said in an obvious effort to soothe her. 

“Mr. Ollivander, what year is it?” She whispered. 

“It’s the 31st of July, 1970,” Mr. Ollivander replied promptly. Hermione swallowed hard. 

“Perhaps you ought to do that spell now, sir,” she suggested. 

“I regret that it requires a drop of your blood, young lady,” Mr. Ollivander informed her with a solemn expression. Calmly, Hermione held out her hand, palm up. Mr. Ollivander got up and went to collect a knife. “Would you care to do the honors, or would you rather do it?”

“I’ll do it,” Hermione said firmly.

Mr. Ollivander handed her the knife hilt first, and Hermione carefully stabbed her finger.They both watched one ruby-red drop bead on the tip of Hermione’s finger. She allowed it to fall to the piece of parchment that Ollivander had charmed with the heritage spell. The blood spread over the parchment, swirling and twirling into names that arranged themselves in a family tree that Hermione did not recognize at all. 

“Fascinating,” Mr. Ollivander murmured. 

“Fascinating?” Hermione repeated. 

Hermione stared at him in fascinated horror. She had always thought Mr. Ollivander was a bit odd. Perhaps it was more than that. Was he mad? Had Professor Snape sent her back in time, tied to a madman? What in bloody buggering hell was going on? 

“Somehow, I must have adopted you,” Mr. Ollivander murmured to himself. “But it wasn’t just me, it somehow included my wife. Look here, it includes the Selwyn family tree.” 

“Your… your wife?” Hermione repeated. She looked around the storage room, wondering if Mrs. Ollivander lurked somewhere in its depths. 

“She isn’t here,” Mr. Ollivander said with a shake of his head. “She’s at home.” 

“You… you don’t live here?” Hermione blurted out and then blushed. 

“No,” Mr. Ollivander said with a shake of his head. “The Floo connects to our house.” 

“Mr. Ollivander, I… I really don’t know what happened,” Hermione protested. “I… someone passed away and left me a bequest. The only thing I received was this ring.” 

“And you put it on,” Mr. Ollivander murmured, nodding. “It’s only natural, I suppose. The curiosity of children is overwhelming at times.” 

“I’m not a child!” Hermione snapped in that too-high voice and then she winced. “I wasn’t a child this morning, anyway.” 

“And how old were you?” Mr. Ollivander asked with an expectant expression. 

“Eighteen,” Hermione grumbled with a mulish expression. Mr. Ollivander coughed. 

“You will excuse me if I still consider that to be a very young age indeed,” Mr. Ollivander said drily. 

“I just… I was upset, when I put it on,” Hermione tried to explain. “I wasn’t thinking clearly, and I thought the ring might be something to… to take my mind off of everything.” 

“And instead, you have been whisked through time, de-aged, and made my daughter,” Mr. Ollivander finished for her. He peered at the parchment and then looked at her. “Glaphyra Ollivander.” 

Hermione’s mouth dropped open and she stared at him in horror, her mouth opening and closing. 

“My name,” she gritted out between clenched teeth, “is _Hermione_.” 

“Hmm.” Mr. Ollivander peered closer at the parchment. “That is listed as your middle name. Glaphyra Hermione Ollivander.” 

“I’m going to _kill him_ ,” Hermione snarled furiously. “Suffering his regret, my _arse_.” 

“Language, Glaphyra,” Mr. Ollivander tutted at her with a small frown. 

“Hermione,” Hermione spat out angrily. 

“Perhaps it would be best if we went to go see your mother?” Mr. Ollivander suggested brightly. 

Hermione shrieked in incoherent rage, but she eventually got to her feet and sullenly followed Mr. Ollivander through the Floo. They stumbled out into a bright, cheery kitchen where a witch was stirring a large cauldron. She stared at the both of them, looking from Mr. Ollivander to Hermione, whose shirt was slipping off of her shoulder. 

“Garrick… why is there a small child with you?” She asked with a gentle, patient expression that told Hermione everything she needed to know about Mr. Ollivander. 

“She popped up in the store room,” Mr. Ollivander explained with an air of innocent excitement. “She’s a time-traveler, darling. Isn’t that fascinating?” 

“Garrick,” Mrs. Ollivander began and then paused. She stared at Hermione with wide eyes and then turned to look at her husband. “She’s wearing the Ollivander ring.” 

“She’s ours!” Mr. Ollivander announced and then smiled winningly at his wife. “Meet Glaphyra Hermione Ollivander.” He leaned towards his wife and whispered. “She prefers her middle name.” 

Mrs. Ollivander winced and regarded Hermione with pitying eyes. “I can’t blame the poor thing. Who would do that to a child?” 

Hermione was pretty certain that she knew who would do such a thing to a child, and as soon as she got a hold of him, she was going to make him _regret_ it. She scowled up at the Ollivanders. 

“This is ridiculous!” Hermione protested. She waved her arms in the air. “I shouldn’t even be here!” 

“Why not, dear?” Mrs. Ollivander asked curiously. 

“I’m not a child! I’m… I’m eighteen years old. I’m a Muggleborn, for Merlin’s sake! This is… this isn’t real!” 

Mrs. Ollivander sighed. “Perhaps it would be best if you stayed here, dear,” she suggested. “If you are a Muggleborn, I doubt that your family would be prepared to care for you.” 

Hermione stared at Mrs. Ollivander with wide eyes. 1970 was the year her mum graduated public school. She was going to go to university this fall. She absolutely wasn’t ready to raise a child, and certainly not a… hang on a minute. 

“How old did that thing say I was?” Hermione asked Mr. Ollivander. 

Reaching into his coat, Mr. Ollivander pulled the heritage parchment out of his coat. He unrolled it, and Mrs. Ollivander crowded close to read it with him. She peered at the parchment and then gasped looking up at Hermione in surprise. 

“This is a heritage spell?” She asked Mr. Ollivander. 

“Yes, dear, of course,” Mr. Ollivander assured her, patting her hand. 

“It says she’s _ours_ ,” Mrs. Ollivander pointed out. She waved a hand at Hermione. “According to that parchment… this is our daughter!” 

“It’s very clever, isn’t it?” Mr. Ollivander agreed. He tilted his head as he looked at Hermione. “How did we do it, do you suppose?” 

“I have no idea,” Mrs. Ollivander murmured. She frowned at Hermione and then looked at the parchment. “It says here that you’re ten years old. Your birthday is… September 19th?” 

The relief of being allowed to at least keep her birthday made her sag against the counter. Then the rest of what Mrs. Ollivander said sunk in.

“I’m… I’m _ten_?” Hermione repeated. She stared at the Ollivander’s in shock. “I can’t be ten, not again.” 

“You are,” Mrs. Ollivander said with a shrug. “I don’t see how we can fix that. You’re welcome to stay here, of course. Technically, you’re our child. If you were to run away, the Aurors would just bring you back to us.” 

The threat was not a subtle one. Hermione scowled at the entire room and crossed her arms over her chest. 

“What am I supposed to do?” She demanded. “Just… live here? Call you mum and dad? Learn how to make wands?” 

“Does that really sound so very awful?” Mrs. Ollivander asked curiously. 

“It’s not real,” Hermione repeated. “None of this is real.” 

“It seems real enough,” Mr. Ollivander observed as he peered at the parchment again. 

Frustration swelled in Hermione’s chest and two angry tears rolled down her cheeks. 

“Fine. I’m staying, I guess,” Hermione huffed. “On two conditions.” 

One slender brow quirked and Mrs. Ollivander regarded Hermione with an amused expression. “And those are?” 

“My name is Hermione. I refuse to answer to Glaphyra,” Hermione snapped.

“Very well,” Mrs. Ollivander answered before her husband could. “And the second?” 

“If I… if I can figure out how to go back, you won’t… you won’t stop me,” Hermione stammered. 

“Why would we stop you?” Mr. Ollivander asked with a confused frown. “Even in the future, you’ll still be our daughter.”

  



	2. The Ollivander Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ollivander family helps their guest adjust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evil Author Day 2021

A cup of tea cured all ills whether one was Muggle, magical, or victim of time travel. At least, that appeared to be Mrs. Ollivander’s motto. She had hustled Hermione into a chair in the sitting room and handed her a cuppa. Then Mrs. Ollivander sat down on the settee next to Mr. Ollivander and watched her blow on her tea before sipping at it tentatively.

“Why did you time travel?” Mrs. Ollivander asked with a frown. “Isn’t it terribly dangerous? You are, if you will forgive me, awfully young for such an endeavor.”

“I am eighteen,” Hermione bit out between clenched teeth. Her sleeves slipped down to completely cover her hands. “Or I was this morning.”

“Even for an eighteen-year-old,” Mrs. Ollivander continued. She frowned at Mr. Ollivander. “I certainly would not have approved of our daughter being sent through time.”

“I didn’t send her back,” Mr. Ollivander protested. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “At least… I don’t _think_ I did.”

“There is the ring,” Mrs. Ollivander pointed out. “That’s your family’s ring.”

“Is it… I mean… is there another version of it here?” Hermione asked excitedly. She set down her tea cup and leaned forward. “Perhaps if I could compare the two versions, it might give me a clue as to how it was done.”

“She is definitely an Ollivander,” Mrs. Ollivander said with a laugh.

“You say that as though you were not in Ravenclaw yourself,” Mr. Ollivander pointed out.

“Is there another version of the ring?” Hermione pressed. Mr. and Mrs. Ollivander exchanged a startled look.

“There is,” Mr. Ollivander said slowly.

“Mum!” A door banged open and then slammed. “Mum, are you here?”

“In here, Gawain,” Mrs. Ollivander called.

A young man burst into the sitting room with a bright, sunny smile. He was tall and slender, like Mr. Ollivander. Dark brown hair fell past his chin and pale eyes focused on her with intense curiosity.

“Mum…,” Gawain Ollivander said slowly. “What has Dad done now?”

There on Gawain Ollivander’s left hand, sitting securely on his index finger, was the Ollivander family ring. Hermione set down her cup of tea on the little table next to her chair and stared at the ring on her own left hand. They _appeared_ to be the same ring.

“Gawain, dear, perhaps you should sit down,” Mrs. Ollivander suggested.

“Merlin’s staff, is that...,” Gawain trailed off and turned to his parents for an explanation.

“This is your sister, Gla—,” Mr. Ollivander began.

“My. name. is. Hermione,” she bit out between clenched teeth.

“Dad.” Gawain stared at Hermione, who tried not to squirm in her chair. “I don’t have a sister.”

“You do now,” Mrs. Ollivander said firmly.

“Mum,” Gawain protested.

“We aren’t quite sure of all the details,” Mr. Ollivander said. “But we do know that this child is ours, and she’s wearing the Ollivander family ring.”

“Don’t you think everyone is going to notice when some kid pops up that _no one_ has ever heard of?” Gawain demanded, waving a hand at Hermione.

“That will be the easy part,” Hermione muttered and rolled her eyes.

Everyone frowned at that and turned to look at her.

“What does that mean?” Gawain demanded.

“You thought I was a Squib,” Hermione informed them flatly. “My French is passable. You stuck me with some relative in France that no one in their right mind would willingly speak to, but I got my Hogwarts letter, so… yay me… no disownment in my future.”

Mrs. Ollivander’s spine stiffened and her eyes flashed at that. “ _We_ are not the Blacks,” she snapped.

Hermione shrugged. “In my experience, the Weasleys and the Longbottoms are just as likely to tuck away an inconvenient mistake,” she said evenly. “It just explains why no one has ever heard of me.”

“Well, she’s clever enough to be an Ollivander,” Gawain allowed. He stared at her hand. “That’s going to be a bit of an issue, though, isn’t it?”

“Can there be more than one family ring?” Hermione suggested.

“I suppose it is possible,” Mrs. Ollivander said slowly. She bit her lip and turned to Mr. Ollivander. “Garrick?”

“That will certainly be the story that we tell everyone,” Mr. Ollivander agreed. He seemed troubled as his gaze swung from Gawain to Hermione.

“What about multiverses,” Mrs. Ollivander suggested to Hermione. “Are you accounting for those in your working theory?” 

Hermione stared at Mrs. Ollivander for a moment and then frowned. “I… well, I mean, no… I hadn’t, exactly. Does the wizarding world subscribe to the theory of multiverses?”

“Garrick and I went to a fascinating lecture in Dublin a while back given by a Dr. Schrodinger,” Mrs. Ollivander said.

“I’ve read the transcripts of that speech,” Hermione murmured. She chewed on her bottom lip and stared at her hand. “It could be a possibility, but Dr. Schrodinger suggested that everything was happening at the same time. _This_ is not my time.”

“What do you mean, ‘this isn’t your time’?” Gawain demanded incredulously.

Slowly, with frequent interjections from all parties involved, they managed to explain everything to Gawain. He snorted and shook his head.

“Dad, this is… this is _odd_ , even for you,” Gawain protested.

“I’m not certain why future me agreed to help send our young Gla—erm, Hermione, back in time,” Mr. Ollivander admitted. He turned to Mrs. Ollivander. “I must have had a good reason.”

“I’m sure that you did, dear,” Mrs. Ollivander murmured. She focused on Hermione for a long moment. “I think that we need to come to a few decisions, as a family, and seal them with family magic.”

“What are you talking about, Mum?” Gawain asked uncertainly. He looked at all of them. “Why do we need to seal this with family magic?”

“Dumbledore,” Hermione said flatly. Mrs. Ollivander’s eyes widened in surprise, but she nodded her head.

“He is a well-known Legilimens,” Mrs. Ollivander allowed.

“And Voldemort, too, I suppose,” Hermione muttered under her breath. She looked up when all three of them gasped. “What?”

“You… you said his name,” Gawain sputtered. “You-Know-Who.”

“Oh, for the love of… he’s just a wizard. A psychotic, murderous wizard, but he’s just a wizard,” Hermione protested. “He’s not a god, despite his delusions of grandeur. Also, his name is Tom Riddle. Voldemort is just his… nom de guerre.”

“For the love of Merlin,” Gawain groaned. “She’s a bloody Gryffindor.”

“I’m not anything yet,” she informed him primly. “I haven’t been Sorted.”

“Poppycock,” Gawain countered. “You said that you’re eighteen, even if you look like a scrawny anklebiter. You’ve already been to Hogwarts once. I would bet a galleon that _you_ were some ridiculous, charging-into-battle-with-nary-a-plan-in-sight, _Gryffindor_.”

“I always had a plan,” Hermione protested stiffly. She wrinkled her nose. “Not everyone _listened_ to me, or _followed_ it, but I had one.”

Mrs. Ollivander cleared her throat and Hermione and Gawain fell silent. She beamed at them both.

“You’re arguing like siblings already,” she said cheerfully. She turned to Garrick. “So, let’s agree on a few things, shall we?”

“I think it would be safer for you, my dear, if we bound you to address us as Mum and Dad,” Mr. Ollivander said cautiously. “I’m not sure how much you know about this time, but you did know You-Know-Who, so I suspect that you know enough.”

Hermione swallowed and blinked rapidly, trying to keep from crying in front of these strangers who were somehow her family.

“Right.” Hermione took a deep breath. “Okay, I can do this.” She looked up at Mr. and Mrs. Ollivander. “You should probably also bind us to my backstory. Will that shield us from Veritaserum and Legilimancy?”

“Yes,” Mr. Ollivander said with a nod. “It’s meant to protect the family as a whole, it’s stronger than Veritaserum, and family records state that Legilimancy can’t break it.”

“You have family records that talk about that?” Hermione asked in surprise. “What on earth has happened to your family?”

“Our family,” Mrs. Ollivander said firmly.

“Alright, our family,” Hermione repeated dutifully. “Why would you, erm, _we_ have records like that? It implies a systematic attack on the Ollivander family.”

“Wandlore,” Gawain offered and shrugged when Hermione looked at him with wide eyes. “It’s not something that’s taught anywhere, and most of the books printed on it are rubbish.”

“Oh,” Hermione breathed. She turned to stare at Mr. Ollivander in horror.

It was obvious once Gawain pointed it out, and Hermione felt _stupid_ for not making that connection herself. Most of her memories and nightmares that dwelt on Malfoy Manor were focused on her own torture, but she remembered that they had taken Mr. Ollivander to Shell Cottage. He had obviously been worked over by someone—most likely Voldemort himself—but he had retained an air of whimsy even then.

“Ah.” Mr. Ollivander sighed. “Let us see what we agree upon. Brynhilde, what do you think?”

“Well…,” Mrs. Ollivander sighed. “There is my grandmother, but… what if someone _asks_ her about, erm, Hermione?”

“Which grandmother is this?” Gawain asked with a confused expression.

“No one is going to approach Richilde Lestrange to discuss anything,” Mr. Ollivander assured his wife. “The last person who even tried was her brother Reynerius, and she set him on fire.”

“Oh, _that_ grandmother,” Gawain muttered with a shudder.

“Lestrange?” Hermione repeated. “Is that wise? Isn’t Rodolphus Lestrange already attending Hogwarts?”

“Yeah, he’s a year below me. He’ll be a Fifth Year this year,” Gawain offered. He frowned at Hermione. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“I don’t want to do anything that would attract attention from the Lestrange family,” Hermione explained as vaguely as she could.

“My grandmother is from the French branch of the family,” Mrs. Ollivander explained. “There’s a bit of a rift between the two sides. It is more likely that   
Rodolphus will ignore you or even outright snub you if he finds out that you were supposedly raised among them.”

“So our Hermione was raised by Richilde Lestrange in France, and we brought her home after a bout of accidental magic?” Mr. Ollivander suggested, looking around at all of them.

“You should also bind her to keep the secrets of wandlore,” Mrs. Ollivander suggested. She paused and looked at Hermione. “Would you accept an apprenticeship in wandcraft?”

The offer of an apprenticeship in wandcraft was an unheard-of, incredible opportunity. The Ollivander family had never accepted apprentices from outside the family. They had carefully and cautiously guarded their knowledge for over two thousand years. Hermione swallowed heavily.

“I—are you sure?” Hermione asked hesitantly.

“However it might have happened, you are ours,” Mr. Ollivander said firmly. “You are an Ollivander. It is now your birthright.”

Despite everything—or perhaps because of everything—Hermione’s eyes immediately filled with tears so that the entire room was a blurry wash, and she rubbed at her eyes so that she could see. Everything that was familiar, everyone she knew, was gone. Hermione couldn’t even be sure if this was truly time travel, some kind of multiverse, or something completely different. She had nothing and no one. She was utterly, completely alone.

“Oh my poor darling,” Mrs. Ollivander murmured and she moved across the room and knelt by Hermione’s chair. “I can’t imagine what this must be like for you, but you’re not alone. You have us.”

That only made things worse, and Hermione burst into tears. Mrs. Ollivander gathered her up and sat in the chair with Hermione in her lap. She murmured soothing noises and patted Hermione gently on the back. When she was able to catch her breath, she pulled away from Mrs. Ollivander and climbed off of her lap.

“I’m not—”

“A child, yes, we know,” Mrs. Ollivander sighed. She leaned forward and took Hermione’s hand. “It’s not wrong to be unsure and uncertain from time to time. It’s not wrong to need other people.”

Hermione took a deep breath and looked at Mr. Ollivander. “I’ll take the apprenticeship. Thank you.”

“Very good,” Mr. Ollivander said with a bright smile.

After several hours of arguing about what should or shouldn’t be included, the Ollivander family came to several important decisions: first, that Glaphyra Hermione Ollivander would be bound to keep the family secrets including everything she would learn about wandcraft and wandlore as an apprentice. Second, that she would address Mr. and Mrs. Ollivander as Dad and Mum. Third, that she had spent the last five years in France, living on a remote property with only her grandmother Lestrange for company. Fourth, that none of them, under any circumstances, could mention the fact that Hermione was a time traveler or Hermione’s previous life to anyone who wasn’t an Ollivander.

Every single oath had required the use of her full given name, according to the heritage chart. By the time they were done, Hermione was red-faced and fuming.

“We know,” Gawain sighed and rolled his eyes at her. “Your name is Hermione.”

“Gawain, don’t tease your sister,” Mrs. Ollivander sighed, rubbing her temples. “It’s been a long day for everyone.”

The most peculiar thing was that it didn’t sound odd for Mrs. Ollivander to say that—to call her Gawain’s sister. It felt… right. It felt correct.

Dinner was a quiet, subdued meal, and Hermione ate whatever was put in front of her. Any possible pickiness that Hermione may have had at one time in her life, had been erased by living for a year in a tent. Food sustained you. It allowed you to make it to another day. It fueled your body so that you could fight, you could run, you could survive.

Once she was done, Mrs. Ollivander led her upstairs to a small, neat room. Hermione looked around the room curiously. There was a bed, a wardrobe, and a small bookcase wedged into the space. They had even managed to cram an armchair into a corner. It was cozy and homely, even if it was a bit spare.

“This is your room now,” Mrs. Ollivander said firmly. “You can decorate it however you like. If there’s something you’d like to do, but you aren’t sure how, then let me know. We can go shopping on Diagon Alley or we can transfigure something.”

“Thank you, M-Mum,” Hermione replied, stumbling over the way her tongue automatically provided the word she’d been bound to use.

Mrs. Ollivander smiled at her and patted her shoulder.

“Let me show you where you can wash up, dear,” she said gently.

Everything ground to a halt when Hermione was alone staring at her ten-year-old reflection in the mirror. She’d had to stand on a little stool that Mrs. Ollivander had pulled out of a cupboard. Hermione scowled at the child in the mirror, and the child scowled back. She stretched her lips, exposing her teeth and groaned. Her buck teeth were back.

Severus Snape was an evil, dark bastard and she was going to make him _pay_.

When she returned to her new bedroom, there was a neatly-folded nightgown sitting on the bed. Hermione fought the urge to sniffle and changed into the nightgown before she crawled into the bed. She expected to toss and turn all night, to stare for hours at the ceiling while her mind raced like a hamster in a wheel, but as soon as her head hit the pillow, she fell asleep.

The next morning, she still felt emotionally tender. Uncertain about what to do, she pulled on the clothes that she had worn the day before. She slipped downstairs to find Mr. Ollivander in the kitchen.

“Good morning, Hermione,” Mr. Ollivander greeted her.

“Good morning, Dad,” Hermione replied and then blinked at him. He shrugged at her.

“Family magic is like that. Now, would you care for eggs and toast?” Mr. Ollivander asked.

“Yes please,” she agreed and sat at the kitchen table.

“I’ll have to leave soon,” Mr. Ollivander explained while he twirled his wand and eggs carefully whisked themselves and were poured into a pan on the hob. “It’s August 1st.”

“Hogwarts shopping,” Hermione guessed. Mr. Ollivander nodded.

“Yes, indeed. So many First Years coming to find their first wand,” he agreed and a fond smile crossed his face. “They’re always so excited, that first time.”

“The first time?” Hermione repeated curiously.

“Ah.” Mr. Ollivander cleared his throat and peered at her over the top of his glasses. “As I am sure you already know, people change, Hermione. Who a person is at eleven, is not who they are at eighteen, or indeed, at sixty-two. Often a wand can grow with a witch or a wizard, but occasionally there are those events that are so profound… so life-changing… that the wand is no longer a match.”

“Like a Patronus?” Hermione asked curiously. He blinked at her.

“Are you referring to the Patronus charm?” Mr. Ollivander pulled his glasses off and began to clean them.

“Yes,” Hermione replied. “I have noticed that when people go through powerful life experiences, that it can change their Patronus.”

“Well, then… yes,” Mr. Ollivander allowed. “I suppose it would be rather like a Patronus.”

A plate filled with fluffy scrambled eggs and toast levitated over and landed on the table in front of Hermione with a little thunk. A small pot of marmalade levitated over and settled next to the salt and pepper. Mr. Ollivander poured out a cup of tea and set that down next to her plate.

“This looks lovely, thank you,” Hermione murmured. She began to eat and watched Mr. Ollivander make his own breakfast.

“You’re already up?” Mrs. Ollivander greeted her with a smile. “The thought of fighting our way through Diagon Alley during back to school shopping fills me with dread. How do you feel about sneaking over to Paris for the day? It wouldn’t hurt your backstory to have a few French things mixed in with anything we pick up in Diagon Alley.”

“That’s very clever,” Hermione agreed without thinking, and then cringed at the amused looks that both Mr. and Mrs. Ollivander sent her way.

“The Ollivander family tends to Sort to Ravenclaw, so you’re surrounded by clever people now, dear,” Mrs. Ollivander explained.

“About that,” Hermione said slowly. “I have a year, right? I mean, until Hogwarts.”

“You should,” Mr. Ollivander agreed.

“What if I didn’t… Sort to Ravenclaw, I mean,” Hermione hurried to explain.

“Do you wish to be in Gryffindor again?” Mrs. Ollivander asked gently.

“No,” Hermione blurted out and shuddered.

Being stuck in Gryffindor tower with the ghosts of everyone she knew sounded worse than awful. It sounded like a level of masochistic that Hermione didn’t think she had in her.

“Slytherin?” Mr. Ollivander guessed with a small frown.

“No.” Hermione shook her head.

If she lived in the dungeons with Severus Snape, he would no doubt meet an unfortunate end before the Yule holiday.

“Well, that only leaves Hufflepuff,” Mrs. Ollivander pointed out.

“I know,” Hermione said. She looked up at Mr. and Mrs. Ollivander. “Don’t you see? No one ever suspects Hufflepuffs of anything. Everyone underestimates them. It’s perfect.”

“That sounds fairly Slytherin,” Mrs. Ollivander said with a laugh. “Maybe you’ll end up in the dungeons yet.”

“No.” Hermione shook her head. “It’ll be Hufflepuff. I’m going to work hard and make friends and hang out in the kitchens.”

Both of the Ollivanders laughed. Mr. Ollivander kissed his wife firmly and patted Hermione on the head.

“Have a lovely day in Paris,” Mr. Ollivander told them.

“Have fun helping wands find the right wielder,” Mrs. Ollivander called as Mr. Ollivander headed to the Floo.

“Goodbye Dad,” Hermione called after him. He waved a hand at them, and tossed a handful of Floo powder into the Floo.

“Ollivander’s Wands,” He called out clearly, and then he disappeared into the Floo.

“Let’s get you some clothing that fits, and perhaps we might stop into a bookstore or two,” Mrs. Ollivander said with a smile. “Does that sound alright?”

“That sounds wonderful, Mum,” Hermione said with a small smile.


	3. A Few Quick Jaunts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione spends time with the Ollivanders. A trip to Paris with Mrs. Ollivander and a trip to Dublin with Gawain Ollivander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evil Author Day 2021

“The wizarding world is fairly small and insular,” Mrs. Ollivander explained as she dug through a trunk. “You are correct, in that many families do tend to tuck away their mistakes, but we need to begin building believability for our backstory.”

“And shopping in Paris allows us to do that?” Hermione asked curiously.

“Yes. The French and English sides of the families don’t talk a lot, but if anyone starts to make subtle inquiries about the Ollivander girl, the French magical community will know all about you, and families of wizarding Britain won’t question it,” Mrs. Ollivander said. She held out a severe set of witches’ robes in a navy blue. “This should do.”

“What is that?” Hermione asked with a frown.

“This is a set of robes I wore when I was about your age,” Mrs. Ollivander explained. “They’re pretty old-fashioned, but a lot of children’s clothing tends to get passed down from generation to generation. It would be wasteful to throw it away, and magic makes it easy for us to store them.”

Calling the robes _old-fashioned_ was being generous, Hermione decided when she pulled them on. She stared at herself in the mirror and grimaced. She looked like she belonged in a BBC adaptation of a Dickens novel, and they smelled vaguely like Ron’s Aunt Tessie. Mrs. Ollivander put her hands on her hips and sighed.

“Let’s go and get you something a little less—”

“Victorian?” Hermione asked with a pointed look. Mrs. Ollivander snorted.

“Oh, Edwardian, surely,” she teased Hermione. “Come along then.”

It was odd, having Mrs. Ollivander clasp her hand firmly as they went through the Floo. It was… comforting, and Hermione did not even know what to do with that. When they came out of the Floo into the public Floo of Paris’ magical district, Mrs. Ollivander efficiently siphoned all the soot off Hermione’s robes.

“We don’t need to worry about school uniforms or school supplies until next year,” Mrs. Ollivander mused aloud. “So what we really want are the sorts of everyday things that every witch takes to school.”

“I don’t want to be too much trouble,” Hermione interjected worriedly. “Do they have the equivalent of Glad Rags here? Some kind of thrift shop? I can make do, really.”

Gently, Mrs. Ollivander took Hermione’s elbow and steered her out of the path of other shoppers. She crouched down so that she could look Hermione in the eyes, and she smiled slightly.

“You are ours now, Hermione,” Mrs. Ollivander reminded her. “It’s my job as your mum to make sure that you have the basic necessities.”

“But—” Hermione tried to protest again, but Mrs. Ollivander shook her head and Hermione fell silent.

“I know that Garrick gives an unusually erratic first impression, but you must remember that his family has been making wands since the 4th century B.C., and they’re quite good at it,” Mrs. Ollivander explained. Her lips twitched slightly. “The Selwyns aren’t exactly wanting for anything, either. I have my own galleons to spend.”

“Okay,” Hermione agreed reluctantly. She bit her lower lip thoughtfully. “So… maybe hair things and toiletries?”

“I think so,” Mrs. Ollivander agreed. She smiled at Hermione and stood up. “At your age, there are all sorts of resizing spells so that robes will last for at least a year or two.”

“At my age,” Hermione repeated sourly. Mrs. Ollivander glanced at her with a small frown.

“We should probably talk about that, later. At home,” Mrs. Ollivander murmured after glancing around them. “Let’s get you kitted out.”

Shopping in Paris’ magical district had been fascinating when she was a Muggleborn visiting France for the summer. Shopping in Paris’ magical district with a witch who had been born and raised in magical communities was eye-opening. Mrs. Ollivander greeted many of the shop owners by their name, inquired after their families, and complained about the decreasing quality of copper cauldrons.

Their first stop was an elegant modiste who spoke to Mrs. Ollivander like they were old friends. An assistant measured Hermione and took careful notes in a little notebook. Mrs. Ollivander gestured toward Hermione when they asked about fabric, colours, and styles. Carefully, Hermione tried to pick simple, classic styles and muted colours. Nothing that would stand out. Nothing that would attract attention.

“You have a good eye for style,” the modiste complimented her. She tilted her head. “It is a shame that you will not attend Beauxbatons. You would look charming in their uniform.”

“Thank you, Madame,” Hermione murmured and tucked herself behind Mrs. Ollivander.

Curious eyes tracked her movements as she trailed after her adoptive mother from shop to shop, listening curiously to the conversations flying over her head. Questions were not quite asked, but Mrs. Ollivander answered them just the same. In an elegant shop that specialized in creating personal scents, there was a blonde woman in a sleek, flowing set of robes that just raised an eyebrow at Mrs. Ollivander who laughed.

“You haven’t met our youngest, yet have you Serafine?” Mrs. Ollivander asked in French. Her Parisian accent was decent, Hermione had to admit. “Hermione, this is Serafine Rosier. Serafine, this is our daughter, Glaphyra Hermione. She prefers her middle name.”

Serafine winced in sympathy and shook her head. “I will never understand wizarding Britain and their obsession with torturing small children.” She turned to Hermione and smiled. “For you, I will make something amazing.”

What followed was an interrogation unlike any other that Hermione had ever had. She answered every question Serafine posed, but she turned to stare at Mrs. Ollivander with wide eyes several times.

“We’ll need to test your magic,” Serafine said thoughtfully. She waved an elegant hand through the air. “Of course, your core hasn’t settled yet, and we may need to adjust after your magical maturation, but it should be easy enough to determine base notes for the moment.”

Silently, Hermione turned toward Mrs. Ollivander for guidance. She had spent seven years in the magical world, and she had never heard anyone mention any of the terms that Serafine tossed out casually.

“Nothing too strenuous,” Mrs. Ollivander said firmly.

“No, nothing too strenuous. I’ve developed a spell to determine natural aptitudes, would that be alright?” Serafine asked. Mrs. Ollivander was already nodding.

“That should be fine,” she agreed.

The spell tingled as it spun over her skin, and Hermione tried to stand as still as possible. Mrs. Ollivander pursed her lips and Serafine made several noises under her breath.

“Look at her aptitude for runes and arithmancy,” Serafine practically cooed. “She’s going to be an asset to the House of Ollivander.”

“She’s going to be an amazing wand-maker,” Mrs. Ollivander agreed with a proud smile for Hermione.

Watching Serafine work was fascinating. She darted around the shop quickly grabbing different notes, testing them, frowning, and putting them back. Finally, Serafine set a tiny bottle of delicate glass on the counter. She picked up a glass rod and dipped it into the tiny bottle and then held out a hand at Hermione expectantly. Hermione put her hand in Serafine’s, and the older witch turned her hand over, exposing her wrist. A gentle brush of the glass rod against the inside of her wrist left a glistening drop of parfum on Hermione’s skin.

“Now, the other hand,” Serafine commanded her. “Your body heat will activate and release the perfume. Do _not_ rub your wrists together.”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” Hermine murmured dutifully. She looked up at Mrs. Ollivander and held out a wrist. “What do you think?”

“Hmm.” Mrs. Ollivander waved a hand over Hermione’s wrist gracefully and inhaled. “Fresh, light, airy. You did well, Serafine.”

“Of course, I did,” Serafine agreed with a smug smile. “I can’t allow my little cousin to attend Hogwarts smelling like the little girls that dab orange blossom water behind their ears, can I?”

 _Cousin?_ Hermione stopped herself from whirling to face Mrs. Ollivander in surprise. Instead she nodded and murmured her thanks. Once they left the store, Hermione shot a look at Mrs. Ollivander who shrugged.

“We should probably talk about that, too,” Mrs. Ollivander sighed. “Perhaps it is for the best that we’ll have a year before you attend Hogwarts. You have a lot to learn in a truly short amount of time.”

“Do we have everything?” Hermione asked. She held up the shopping bags that she was holding. “It feels like we’ve purchased so much today.”

“There are a couple of bookstores I wanted to look at,” Mrs. Ollivander suggested with a sly smile. “I want to pick up a couple of books for you.”

No matter what had happened to her, Hermione was never one to turn down a trip to the bookstore. She had drifted through the stacks, selecting books that looked interesting and showing them to Mrs. Ollivander who would either nod at her, or murmur that they already had that one at home.

When they returned to the house, Mrs. Ollivander helped Hermione carry everything upstairs and put it away. They heard the door slam downstairs and Mrs. Ollivander rolled her eyes.

“That is probably Gawain,” she huffed. “Your father would have just come through the Floo. Will you see if he is staying for dinner? He mentioned that he wanted to go hang out at a friend’s tonight.”

“Of course, Mum,” Hermione murmured. Hermione pounded down the stairs and flung herself into the kitchen. “Gawain? Are you home?” She called as she headed toward the living room. “Gawain?” Barrelling into the living room, she put her hands on her hips and glared at her brother. “Really, Gawain? Didn’t you hear me? Mum wants to know if you’re staying here for dinner?”

“I would have to be dead not to hear you,” Gawain retorted and rolled his eyes at her.

“Oh.” Hermione’s hands slid down her hips and she stared at the two boys sprawled on the couch next to her brother. One of them was a blond boy with broad shoulders and a ready smile. The other had dark red hair and a serious expression. Her cheeks flushed and she turned a glare on Gawain. “You are _such_ a prat. Are you staying for dinner, or not?”

“Will you ask Mum if Damocles and Ted can stay for dinner?” Gawain asked.

“Fine,” Hermione huffed. “Why not?” She threw up her hands and marched back upstairs. “Mum? Can Damocles and Ted come over for dinner?”

“Sure,” Mrs. Ollivander said with a shrug. “We’ve got plenty.”

Once Hermione had passed on Mrs. Ollivander’s approval of dinner guests, she hurried back upstairs. Mrs. Ollivander was sitting in Hermione’s little chair with a couple of books in her lap.

“What did you mean, earlier, when you were talking about when you said that we needed to talk about my age?” Hermione asked curiously.

Mrs. Ollivander winced. “The spells that we did give your age as ten years old. That is your physical age, but it is also your magical age.”

“My magical age?” Hermione repeated with a frown.

“I had wondered, since you were a time traveller, if you might have retained your adult core, but you did not,” Mrs. Ollivander explained.

“What does that mean?” Hermione asked quietly.

“You will not be capable of casting at the level that you are used to,” Mrs. Ollivander explained. “You will have to retrain your focus and your ability to channel magic through your wand. If you attempt higher-level spells, you may find that you either lose control of your focus, or you might magically exhaust yourself.”

“So, I just need to work on retraining my focus,” Hermione decided. “I can do that.”

“It’s not that simple, dear,” Mrs. Ollivander explained gently. “You can’t force your core to mature before it’s ready. You will find that working magic exhausts you far more than it did previously. You will probably sleep a lot more in general as you aren’t a teenager anymore.”

“Well… _shit_ ,” Hermione breathed.

“Language, dear,” Mrs. Ollivander sighed.

“Sorry, Mum.” Hermione sat down on the bed and pointed at the books in Mrs. Ollivander’s lap. “What’re those?”

“This one is A Child’s First Grammar to Runes,” Mrs. Ollivander held up a slender volume, then set it down and picked up another one. “This one is an introduction to magical theory, and this one is a primer for Arithmancy.” Mrs. Ollivander smirked. “You don’t need magic for these, and they’ll help build a good foundation for your apprenticeship.”

A warm feeling settled in Hermione’s chest. Mrs. Ollivander had gone out of her way to find books that would be useful to Hermione _now_. Hogwarts didn’t really go in depth into magical theory. Each class provided a basic overview to magical theory as it intersected their chosen field of study. Magical theory of Transfiguration was different from magical theory of charms, which was different from the magical theory of Potions.

The implication that Mrs. Ollivander was going to provide tuition that might allow her to explore the topic in-depth was exciting. Hermione quickly took the proffered books and clutched them to her chest.

“Thank you, Mum!” Hermione blurted out.

“Of course, my darling,” Mrs. Ollivander said with a gentle smile. “Once Gawain is back at Hogwarts, we’ll begin your study program. I should probably head downstairs and check on the boys.”

Dinner was a raucous affair that consisted mostly of all three boys teasing and joking with each other. Hermione ate quietly and watched her adopted family interact with these young wizards who were obviously familiar guests. She did her best to avoid attracting attention and focused on the food in front of her.

Ted Tonks… the wizard who would one day marry Andromeda Black and father Nymphadora Tonks. Hermione spared a moment to wince in sympathy with the future witch. She knew how wretched it was to have a repulsive name. Damocles Belby was the inventor of the Wolfsbane Potion. It was going be difficult to be around both wizards. She was going to have to learn to bite her tongue and keep her own counsel.

Meanwhile, her brother Gawain spent most of his time trying to convince the Ollivanders to let him go on a road trip to magical Dublin for the day. Even Hermione, who admittedly had not known Gawain for more than a couple of days, the story sounded a little too contrived. Gawain claimed that they wanted to go visit Belby’s family.

“I need your mother’s help in the shop tomorrow,” Mr. Ollivander said with a frown. “You can go if you take Hermione with you.”

“Dad!” Both children whinged at once.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Hermione protested hotly.

“Can’t she just stay in the back of the shop like I used to do?” Gawain complained. He waved a hand at her. “We can’t drag a _kid_ all over the place.”

“I thought you were going to visit Damocles’ aunt Athena in Dublin,” Mrs. Ollivander said mildly.

“We are,” Gawain agreed immediately.

“Then you can take Hermione along. It will do her some good to get out,” Mrs. Ollivander said with a smile. Gawain grumbled at that and slumped in his seat.

“Fine,” he huffed finally. 

/\/\/\/\/\

The next morning, Hermione was dragged out of her bed before the sun had risen. She stumbled into the bathroom, took a shower, and carefully picked out her still-damp hair with a silver hair pick that Mrs. Ollivander had purchased for her in a toiletry boutique. She pulled on one of the robes that the modiste had finished yesterday and carefully applied the perfume that her cousin Serafine—she had to remember to talk to Mrs. Ollivander about that—had made for her, and stumbled downstairs to find breakfast. Gawain was already dressed: a pair of Muggle jeans and a button-down shirt with a set of robes thrown over the top.

“What are you really doing today?” Hermione asked when Gawain shoved a plate of beans on toast at her.

“You mean, what are _we_ really doing today,” Gawain grumbled. “Because I’m dragging along my ten-year-old kid sister.”

“I’m—,” Hermione tried to say _older than you are_ , but she could not. She tried again: “I’m—” Her face flushed as she concentrated. She sighed and shook her head. “I’m more mature than you are by leagues,” she finally managed.

“Whatever,” Gawain huffed and rolled his eyes. “Eat your breakfast. The lads will be here soon.”

“I hope that you’re not doing something stupid,” Hermione muttered after she took a healthy bite of the breakfast Gawain had put together for her. She ate methodically and quickly and pushed the plate away from her when she was done. “What now?”

As soon as the words left her mouth, there was a quiet knock at the kitchen door, and Gawain stood up.

“Come on,” Gawain said with a roll of his eyes. “We might as well get going.”

On the doorstep was Ted Tonks with a ready smile, even at the current ungodly hour. How could anyone be _that_ cheerful this early in the morning? Hermione squinted at him.

“You’re a Hufflepuff, aren’t you?” She accused with a frown.

“Yup,” Tonks agreed with a grin.

Worry niggled at the back of Hermione’s brain. What if she wasn’t Huffle-y enough or Puffy enough to convince that stupid hat? Perhaps her brother’s friendship with Ted Tonks was not the utter nightmare that she had deemed it. Maybe he could teach her how to be a proper Hufflepuff.

“Tonks is a good sort,” Gawain declared and slung an arm around his friend’s neck. “The kind of wizard you want at your back during a fight.”

“A fight?” Hermione repeated with a frown. She looked from Ted Tonks to Gawain. “Who are you fighting?”

“No one this year, I hope,” Damocles Belby said quietly. “Thank Merlin Black graduated last year.”

“There’s still Andromeda and Narcissa,” Gawain pointed out.

Perhaps because she was looking for it, she saw the way Ted Tonks tensed when Gawain mentioned Andromeda Black.

“They aren’t like Bellatrix,” Tonks protested.

“They’re just as hot for the Dark Arts as the rest of the Black family,” Belby retorted. He opened his mouth and then closed it. “Never mind. There is no point in trying to debate this with a Hufflepuff. You lot would try to save everyone if you could.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Hermione asked curiously.

“Merlin’s pants, we’re surrounded,” Belby groaned.

“Let’s just go,” Gawain suggested.

Road trip was a fairly accurate description of the next few hours. Damocles Belby held out his wand and the Knight Bus pulled to a stop in front of the Ollivander house. Gawain grabbed Hermione’s hand and tugged her onto the bus after him. He paid their fare and pulled her toward the back where Belby and Tonks had already claimed seats. The Knight Bus took them to the Ministry, where they were able to access the International Floo.

“Are we actually going to Dublin?” Hermione asked in surprise. “That wasn’t a lie?”

“Of course, we’re going to Dublin, Hermione,” Gawain huffed at her in exasperation. “Where else would we go?”

“I don’t know… Knockturn Alley or something?” Hermione guessed.

“Been there,” Belby muttered. “Didn’t have what we needed.”

“ _What_?” Hermione trailed after the three teenaged wizards, suddenly a lot more worried about what they were getting up to. “Is there really an Aunt Athena?”

“Belby’s got one, if that’s what you’re asking,” Tonks said with a grin.

“Are we actually visiting her today?” Hermione asked drily. She turned to Gawain. “You know, like you told Mum and Dad we were?”

“Sort of,” Gawain muttered. He scowled at her. “Are you going to tattle on me?”

Hermione lifted her chin and glared at Gawain. “I didn’t say that. I just like to know what I’m walking into when I’m completely defenceless.”

A brief flash of guilt shone in Gawain’s eyes and he rubbed a hand over his mouth.

“Stay close to me and for Merlin’s sake, keep your mouth shut,” Gawain sighed. He exchanged looks with Belby and Tonks. “This is safe.”

“Completely safe,” Tonks agreed.

Belby’s Aunt Athena lived in a Dublin townhouse. She greeted them all and directed them to the kitchen where she had put out some tea and biscuits. Hermione was practically pushed into the kitchen by Gawain. She murmured her thanks to Belby’s Aunt Athena and sipped at her tea. Breakfast had been a while ago, so she snagged a couple of biscuits and ate one.

“He’s just upstairs, shall I fetch him down?”

“Yes, please,” Belby said with a suitably solemn expression. “Is it alright if Gawain’s little sister stays in here?”

“I’m not a _baby_ ,” Hermione huffed indignantly. “I can behave myself!”

“It’s not that…,” Belby said with a frown at Gawain. “She’s your sister, do something!”

Immediately, Hermione turned to glare up at Gawain.

“Don’t you dare,” she hissed up at him.

“You have to promise that you won’t tell Mum and Dad.” Gawain glared back at her.

“Gawain, no,” Belby protested.

“Fine,” Hermione snapped. “I promise not to tell Mum and Dad.”

“Fine,” Gawain retorted. “You’re going to sit next to me, behave, and keep your mouth shut.”

Seated impatiently on a settee next to Gawain, Hermione waited for the person they had apparently all come to see. Belby had pulled out a journal from somewhere and had a self-inking quill in one hand. His Aunt Athena led another young man into the room and had him sit in an armchair that had been placed prominently in the room.

Once the young man sat down, Hermione bit back a gasp. Scars criss-crossed over visible skin. Some were old and white, but there was a fresh scar on his cheek. Gawain frowned at her fiercely and she rolled her eyes at him. The young man sitting in the chair laughed and then shook his head.

“Sorry for laughing, she just reminds me of my little sister,” he muttered. “It’s nice to… my mum won’t let Bridget anywhere near me.”

Belby flushed and cleared his throat, opening his journal.

“Would you be willing to describe what a typical transformation is like?” Belby asked.

“Yeah, ‘course,” the young man replied with a frown. “That’s why I’m here, innit?” 


End file.
